Never partner with anybody, really

So I used to think that I was semi-useless, and that to do interesting real-life things, I would have to find someone willing to work with me.

Cue madness and dysfunction, and then repeat.

George Shaw said something once about how an eye doctor told him that he had nearly perfect vision, and that most people actually didn’t have what we think of as normal sight, because they saw with some percentage of distortion. He also said that he, in his younger days, invested a massive amount of time in finding out if he was wrong about things, and that he gradually came to the understanding, as the years passed, that he had always been right about everything, the inference being that his ideal vision led him to see things as they actually were.

Shaw also thought he was better than Shakespeare, but Shaw didn’t understand love, and made a positive old fool out of himself over ladies. Sadly, Chesterton is correct, and John Bull’s Other Island is the only decent play that Shaw ever wrote. All of Shaw’s other plays demonize and dissect romanticized love in an absurd fashion that reveals his pathological fear of beautiful women.

The point being, Shaw saw things as they really were, but his obsession with avoiding his damaged childhood made him into a fool in the long run.

I also see things as they really are, and I don’t want to make a fool out of myself.

There’s a long gap of nine years where no one knows what William Shakespeare was doing with himself. A lot of educated people have pet theories about different mystery occupations the soon-to-be established playwright was engaged in during those nine years.

But I’ll tell you what the Bard of Avon was doing during those nine years; he was doing what Shaw never had the sense, the guts, or perhaps the good fortune to do. Shakespeare was working through his personal issues.

And that’s what I’m doing right now.

I keep reminding myself of how worthwhile it will be to not have neurotic pathology rampaging through my day. Because telling myself that feels like it will make the pain worthwhile somehow.

I think it’s funny to read therapy books by counselors who have clearly never formed a real understanding of the pathology of the victim. They bluster and preach, and they have useful things to say, but they sound like emotional dunderheads while they say them. And often, selfishness and abuse and rationalizing the abuse filters through.

I don’t know why my abuse was worse than anyone else’s, but it was. I was very smart, and in some ways my abusers were afraid of me, because I saw them more clearly than anyone else did. I protected myself from a lot of physical things that could have happened. And it isn’t exactly that my abusers were creative, or original; it was that I fully experienced the abuse as a conscious entity while all of it happened. And most people hide.

Anyway, decent humans don’t work well as business partners with indecent humans. I had to run through about twelve different partners and potential partners before the pattern of corruption became very clear. They all wanted my power; none of them wanted to suffer to earn it. All of them were different, too. They had different ways of lying. I thought a few of them were really decent people, until time showed their willingness to deceive and cheat and steal.

The worst were the people who wanted to tinker with bodies, the way I did. None of them ever found out how, because I didn’t trust any of them, but they all wanted to know how to push people’s buttons. They were all trying to hack into some kind of parlor trick that would let them open up people’s hearts, the way I did. They couldn’t see that it wasn’t me doing the opening up. People open up themselves when they feel comfortable, loved, and safe. And abusers can’t make anyone feel genuinely loved and safe; they’re constitutionally incapable.

In other news, I am thinking about buying breakfast cereal.

Happy writing.

Why businesses fail (at least mine)

The first time I started a business, I didn’t realize how weird people were about money.

The second time I started a business, I didn’t realize how corrupt and unmanageable my business partners would be.

The third time I started a business, I didn’t realize how far customers would go to screw me over.

The fourth time I started a business, I decided to scrap the idea of entrepreneurship until I did a buttload of therapy.

Also, see acting.

There are really good directors out there. I’ve worked with two of them. Sum total, I’ve worked with over twenty directors personally (yeah, I know, short career, huh?), and watched other directors work from a distance.

Those two were the only good directors.

In my experience, the vast majority of theatre/film directors are corrupt scumbags on a power trip.

Do I sound bitter?

Actors are pretty wonderful, though. They can be shortsighted and kinda mean under pressure, but most of them are pure and decent.

Until they become directors.

Anyway.

Look at me, I’m gonna go write a book.

Stop looking at me, internet strangers, I’m not a hypocrite.

Holy fishnet stockings, Batman!

Today I am going to gripe about the unnecessary and glamorized use of prostitutes and strippers in mainstream films/tv shows.

So the other day, in a fit of evening streaming service folly, I watched Enemy, with Jake whats-it, with the heavy eyelids.

And the movie had an interesting story, except for the part where the director thinks women are spiders.

I am not making that up; there was an interview after the film, the director thinks women are spiders.

So.

The takeaway message from the film, for all you streamers at home, is that men only get pleasure out of spiders/women when they get to watch the spiders/women committing suicide.

Because oozy guts and an abuser’s idea of ultimate justice.

Thanks, director dude. Thanks for contributing that profound piece of art into the world. I’m so glad you could share your insight into life with all of us.

Because the suicide isn’t important unless it is also committed in five-inch heels and complete nudity.

The nudity is important, because in real life, spiders don’t wear clothes.

 

Come, Eviscerate, Leave

When I was in school, one of my brothers tried to kill himself. My parents hid this from everyone; the most I can remember from seeing my brother around that time is that he wore some of those little wrist sweatband things.

The disturbing thing about this story is twofold: first, that my mother thought his suicide attempts were my fault, because I had loyal friends, fulfilling hobbies, and a charming personality. Because, you know, I wanted those things, and so I worked to have them.

Then, my dad told me a long time later about the suicide attempts. This is the second disturbing part: that my parents hid the holes in my brother’s wrists because they didn’t want anyone to know that they had raised a boy¬†who was so miserable that he wanted to die.

Therapy? No.

Mind altering drugs? Yes.

Secrets? Check.

I still have nightmares about this perceived responsibility that my parents laid at my door.

After all, if I had done as this brother did, and stayed at home, dwindling my soul into an increasingly myopic hole of drivel and self-hate, maybe he would have…felt better?

Yeah, no.

I used to feel really sorry for this brother, until he revealed, inadvertently, that he was doing this to himself on purpose. He had figured out that other people would jump up and run all about in circles if he maintained enough sadness.

I don’t feel sorry for him anymore.

I also don’t hate my parents as much as I probably will when I finish undoing their nefarious work.